Somewhere, someone brayed out a laugh. Perhaps it was not at him. Perhaps somewhere on the shadowed deck, sailors kept watch together and told humorous stories to pass the time. Perhaps. His face still flushed, and he suppressed anger at the possible ridicule. Foolishness, he told himself. Foolish to be angered if a man was dull-witted enough to find his stumbling humorous, and even more foolish to be angry when he could not be certain that was the case at all. It had simply been too long a day. He got carefully to his feet and groped his way to the foredeck.

A single coarse blanket had been left in a heap there. It smelt of whoever had used it last, and was either badly woven or stiffened in spots with filth. He let it drop back to the deck. For a moment he considered making do with it; the summer night was not that cold, he might not need a blanket at all. Let the insult go by; he'd not be dealing with any of them after tomorrow. Then he stooped to snatch the blanket up from the deck. This was not the misfortune of an early fall of hail or a flooding river, a happenstance of nature to be weathered stoically. This was the cruelty of men, and a priest of Sa was not expected silently to accept it, regardless of whether that cruelty was inflicted on himself or on others.

He squared his shoulders. He knew how they saw him. The captain's son, a boy, a runt, sent off to live in a monastery, to be raised to believe in goodness and kindness. He knew there were many who saw that as a weakness, who saw the priests and priestesses of Sa as sexless ninnies who spent their lives wandering about prating that the world could be a beautiful peaceful place. Wintrow had seen the other side of a priest's life. He had tended priests brought back to the monastery, priests maimed by the cruelty they had fought against, or dying of the plagues they had contracted when they nursed other victims. A clear voice and a steady eye, he counseled himself. He draped the offending blanket over one arm and picked his way carefully towards the afterdeck where a single night-lantern was burning.

Three men sat in the circle of dim light, a scatter of gaming pegs on the deck. Wintrow smelled the harsh edge of cheap spirits, and frowned to himself. The tiny flame of outrage inside him flared brighter. As if possessed by his grandfather's anma, he stepped boldly into the circle of their lantern. Throwing the blanket to the deck, he asked bluntly, “And when did the night watch on board this ship begin drinking on duty?”

There was a general recoil from his direction until the three saw who had spoken.

“It's the boy-priest,” one sneered, and sank back down into his sprawl.

Again the flash of anger ignited in him. “It's also Wintrow Haven of Vestrit lineage, and on board this ship, the watch neither drinks nor games. The watch watches!”

All three men lumbered to their feet. They towered over him and all were brawnier, with the hard muscles of grown men. One had the grace to look shamed, but the other two were the worse for drink and unrepentant.

“Watches what?” a black-bearded fellow demanded insolently. “Watches while Kyle takes over the old man's ship, and replaces her crew with his cronies? Watches while all the years we worked, and worked damn loyal, go over the side and mean naught?”

The second man took up the first's litany. “Shall we watch while a Haven steals the ship that should be run by a Vestrit? Althea might be a snotty little vixen, but she's Vestrit to the bone. Should be her that has this ship, woman or no.”

A thousand possible replies raced through Wintrow's mind. He chose as he thought best. “None of that has anything to do with drinking on watch. It's a poor way to honor Ephron Vestrit's memory.”

The last statement seemed to have more effect on them than anything else he had said. The shame-faced man stepped forwards. “I'm the one that's been assigned the watch, and I ain't been drinking. They was just keeping me company and talking.”

Wintrow could think of nothing to say to that, so he only nodded gravely. Then his eyes fell on the discarded blanket and he recalled his original mission. “Where's the second mate? Torg?”

The black-bearded man gave a snort of disdain. “He's too busy moving his gear into Althea's cabin to pay attention to anything else.”

Wintrow gave a short nod to that and let it pass without comment. He did not address any particular man as he added to the night, “I do not think I should have been able to board Vivacia unchallenged, even in our home port.”

The watchman looked at him oddly. “The ship's quickened now. She'd be swift to sing out if any stranger tried to board her.”

“Are you sure she knows she is to do that if a stranger comes aboard?”

The incredulous look on the watch man's face grew. “How could she not know? What Captain Vestrit and his father and his grandmother knew of shipboard life, she knows.” He looked aside and shook his head slightly as he added, “I thought all Vestrits would know that about a liveship.”

“Thank you,” Wintrow said, ignoring the last bit of the man's comment. “I'll be seeking Torg now. Carry on.”

He stooped and swept up the discarded blanket. He walked carefully as he left the dim circle of light, letting his eyes adjust to the deepening darkness. He found the door to Althea's cabin standing ajar, light spilling out onto the deck. Those of her boxes that had not already been carted off were stacked unceremoniously to one side. The mate was engaged in judiciously arranging his own possessions.

Wintrow rapped loudly on the opened door, and tried not to take pleasure in the way Torg started almost guiltily.

“What?” the man demanded, rounding on him.

“My father said to see you to get a blanket,” Wintrow stated quietly.

“Looks to me like you've got one,” Torg observed. He could not quite hide the glint of his amusement. “Or does the priest-boy think it's not good enough for him?”

Wintrow let the offending blanket drop to the deck. “This won't do,” he said quietly. “It's filthy. I've no objection to worn, or patched, but no man should willingly endure filth.”

Torg scarcely gave it a glance. “If it's filthy, then wash it.” He made a show of returning to his stowing of his goods.

Wintrow refused to be cowed. “I should not need to point out that there is no time for the blanket to dry,” he observed blandly. “I am simply asking you to do as my father commanded. I've come aboard for the night, and I need a blanket.”

“I've done as your father commanded, and you have one.” The cruel amusement in Torg's voice was less veiled now. Wintrow found himself responding to that rather than to the man's words.

“Why does it amuse you to be discourteous?” he asked Torg, his curiosity genuine. “How could it be more trouble to you to provide me with a clean blanket than to give me a filthy rag and force me to beg for what I need?”

The honesty of the question caught the mate off-guard. He stared at Wintrow, speechless. Like many casually cruel men, he had never truly considered why he behaved as he did. It was sufficient for him that he could. Quite likely, he had been a bully from his childhood days, and would be until he was disposed of in a canvas shroud. For the first time, Wintrow took physical stock of the man. All his fate was writ large upon him. He had small round eyes, blue as a white pig's. The skin underneath the roundness of his chin had already began to sag into a pouch. The kerchief knotted about his neck was anciently soiled, and the collar of his blue-and-white-striped shirt showed an interior band of brown. It was not the dirt and sweat of honest toil, but the grime of slothfulness. The man did not care to keep himself tidy. It already showed in the way his possessions were strewn about the cabin. In a fortnight, it would be a reeking sty of unwashed garments and scattered food scraps.